He sees blood on patrol all the time, both his own and other people's, but the feeling when he touches you—not even sexually—feels so much more gorey than anything he's ever witnessed. Everytime he sees that look in your eyes, he feels the wet blood of sin on his hands—and he's sure the blood is on your hands, too, stained on your palms. Like his greedy, unfaithful fingernails have dug into your chest and pulled out your quickly beating heart.

You look at him as if his expression shows something deeply sinister, as though a display proving that he likes the feeling of the veins rubbing against his palm is flashing across the face you find so immorally pretty.

You can't do this, not with him. Not the kind of boy your father would strike you for hanging out with at all, let alone kissing.

He doesn't believe in God the same way you and your family do; there's not much of a reason for him to believe in the man upstairs, after all. But he does believe in you, believes you're his savior, an angel in disguise as a young man. And gosh, do you look the part.

He could rant and rant about how good you look in his eyes, the same way you rant and chant with your eyes squeezed shut, your fingers squeezed together, too, and your knees against the wooden floor. He even thinks you look pretty now.

You look sick. Hell, he's sure you feel sick.

And the spirit you sing to hates the kind of sickness you're bedridden with.

“The bible doesn't actually say anything about gay people, y'know,” Tim murmurs, but he knows deep down that it's no use, and extremely insensitive, at this point, to spit facts to you. Not when he's icing the bruises inflicted by your own father. “There's nothing wrong with you.” He swallows. “Nothing's wrong with us. Please know that.”

But hating yourself is so deeply instilled in your mind, you can't know anything.